


A Yellow Sky

by allonsy_gabriel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt No Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Loss of Powers, M/M, Nonsense, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 05:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14537547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: One moment, Alexander is throwing punches, yelling at the top of his lungs, and the next moment, the ground is shaking, rocks are cracking, and the wind itself seems to be screaming.





	A Yellow Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sanna_Black_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/gifts).



> I watched Infinity Wars and then this happened blame Marvel and my over active imagination.
> 
> @ Ring: this is what happens when you're not here to stop me. You brought this upon yourself. ;)

The first time it happens, Alexander is eight and George Perry from down the street calls his mother a mulatto whore.

One moment, Alexander is throwing punches, yelling at the top of his lungs, and the next moment, the ground is shaking, rocks are cracking, and the wind itself seems to be screaming.

The adults in the town claim it was an earthquake, but George Perry never comes near Alexander or speaks ill of his mother again.

***

The second time it happens, Alexander is ten, and his father is standing in front of the front door with a bag over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Alexander asks, willing himself not to cry. It’s late, the sun has long since set, and his father’s face seems to be flickering in and out of existence with every pass of the candle light.

“Away,” James Hamilton replies, his voice soft but firm.

“Away?” Alexander repeats, his throat starting to clog up and his voice hitching on the word, like it’s cutting his throat as it comes out. “When — when will you be back?”

He knows the answer, even as he asks.

“I don’t know, ‘Lex,” his father mutters, unable to look Alexander in the eye.

_ Oh, how funny the world is _ , Alexander thinks,  _ that the father has began to fear the judgement of the son. _

James turns to leave, to really leave, and Alexander  _ can’t _ . He can’t stand there and let his father leave, he can’t, he has to do  _ something _ —

The tears are flowing freely now, and Alexander, small as he is, lets free a sound that seems to claw and tear at his throat as it rips out of him.

The ceiling cracks. The shelves shake. The windows shatter. The flame of the candle flickers and expands like a mini star before going out completely, leaving behind just a puff of smoke.

And yet, as the dust and debris settles, James Hamilton shuts the door behind him.

***

The third time it happens, he’s barely conscious enough to remember it. All he can recall is the way the house around him seems to tremble and heave, almost as if it, too, is sobbing as Alexander shouts and screams and yells for his mother to wake up, wake up,  _ wake up _ .

***

It only happens once more after that. Alexander has grown wary of the whispers that follow him, the murmurs of witchcraft that stick to his clothes like tar. There are those that mutter amongst themselves, making quiet claims that, surely, he’s not Hamilton’s boy, that, what with everything  _ else _ his mother got up to, a tryst with the Devil isn’t too far fetched. Alexander keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t engage, has learned that speaking out about these sort of things only makes things  _ worse _ , and instead focuses on his work.

If he can just  _ get out _ , just  _ leave _ this godforsaken island, he’ll be  _ free _ . Free of his past, of this curse, of all these whispered rumours.

And then the hurricane comes.

It comes and shakes and rattles the foundation of Beekman and Cruger in a way that’s  _ much  _ too familiar for Alexander’s taste, and it’s all he can do to keep from surrendering to the winds, to just allow himself to be washed away in the flood.

He doesn’t know  _ why _ , why all this keeps happening to  _ him _ . He recalls the story of Jonah, of the way God sent the tempest to his little fishing boat, the way he chased him with a storm until Jonah pleaded for his fellow men to toss him overboard, to throw him into the sea.

Alexander can’t help but think that, maybe, this is God punishing  _ him _ , that this is what he  _ deserves _ , that heaven has scorned him, the Devil’s son, and that this is where he will die, alone on the second story of a merchant’s shop.

He lets himself go.

There’s no point in stopping it now, not when it will be masked by the storm. He lets it all go.

He doesn’t know what’s him and what’s the storm, whether or not the way the roof collapses in on itself is because of Alexander or the hurricane, if the way houses crumble around him is natural or not.

He knows he’ll never be free, that this is his end, but it feels so much like redemption, like liberation, that he can’t find it in himself to care.

***

When he comes to he thinks, surely, this is hell. Surely God did not allow him to survive, that, instead, he's been damned to an eternity on a heartless rock in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by the shambles of his life.

But, it appears as if the Lord has decided to show mercy, or else has run out of it completely because Alexander is alive.

Alive, but not living.

He feels as if he's stumbling through a dream, living in a haze between life and death, stuck in Purgatory, trapped behind a veil that separates the souls of the damned from those of those who are free.

In this realm of abandoned men, of forgotten hearts, there is only one thing Alexander can think to do.

He writes.

He writes of the storm, of both the storms, the one from the sea and the one that boiled over from inside himself. He pours it all out on the parchment in front of him, lets it drip from his quill, mixed in with the ink.

He sends it off to the paper, his last will and testament, the broken words of a forsaken boy, left behind by God and man alike.

***

Alexander Hamilton does his best to forget the plagues of his younger years, does his best to leave the dust and the ash and the ruins  _ with _ the dust and the ash and the ruins.

He pushes through his schooling with a vigor of a man possessed, running, fleeing the spirits that lurk in the corner of his eye.

America was a dream, a salvation, a Camelot. No one knew his name, not yet, but they would. They'd know him, not by the shaking earth and broken glass that had trailed him through his childhood, but by the shaking hearts and broken chains that he would leave in his wake for the rest of his life.

Washington employs his pen and Eliza employs his heart and the revolution employs his soul.

And John Laurens…

John Laurens doesn't employ him as much as ensnare him, tangling him up in strings of camaraderie and friendship and, as Alexander stares at the sleeping man's face,  _ love _ .

It's wrong, he knows it's wrong, knows Eliza, his wife, his heart, should be the sole receiver of his affections, but there's something in John, in his recklessness and spirit, that tugs at a part of Alexander that he'd long since put to sleep.

He recalls then the murmurs of St. Croix, of the Devil's son, of the witch's boy, an abomination and a fiend masquerading in the heart of a youth with violet eyes and flaming hair.

He remembers his moment of redemption amidst the storm, the freedom it brought.

Oh, to fall into the arms of it again, to allow the wickedness that's always clung to his bones to show, if only in the arms of his dearest Laurens.

Alexander Hamilton has spent his life being strong, and God help him, does it feel good to be  _ weak _ .

***

Yorktown comes with glory and victory on its heels. Alexander stands in the autumn sun, his musket in one hand and saber in the other. John is by his side, looking like Apollo made flesh, golden and glowing in the light.

Alexander can't help but grin at the irony of it. A demon boy caught in the affections of an angel.

The British stand on the other side of the hill, Alexander knows. Knows that to capture their encampment would mean a hero's honor and another step closer to the nation he his struggling to help create, and so when he proposes his scheme to Laurens, he's delighted to see the glint in the other man's eye, that spark of righteous determination.

They charge forward, some three-hundred men behind them, calling orders left and right.

Somewhere in the struggle, Alexander loses sight of John, misplaces him in the chaos and crush of bloody martyrs.

When he sees him again, John is hand to hand with two lobsterbacks, ducking and weaving as elegantly as a ballroom dance.

For a moment, he forgets their place, forgets the stakes, entranced by the grace and beauty of his wild angel, his golden prince—

A shout. A cry. A blossom of red in the centre of a blue coat.

The toppling of a god.

Alexander sees as John crumbles, falls to his knees as the crimson flower blooms brighter over his stomach.

And he screams.

The beast inside him, so long dormant, so long scorned, comes roaring out, the ground beneath him quaking, and still Alexander screams.

The earth opens underneath the blood soaked British soldiers, the jaws of hell itself swallowing them whole, and still Alexander screams.

The heavens themselves join in with his cries, the clouds splitting, weeping upon the bodies of the dead that lay about him, and still Alexander screams.

He screams until the world around him dances and spins in his eyes, and finally goes black.

***

There is no redemption this time. No freedom, no liberation, no salvation.

He returns home to his Eliza, and she greets him with a child in her arms. She doesn't know of his massacre at Yorktown, of how he couldn't speak for days after, of how John still seems to linger in his peripheral, face gaunt and stomach stained red.

She doesn't know. No one does.

They say be fought valiantly, that he and his men overtook three battalions of British soldiers with his charge over the hill, that he's a hero.

They say they found him, unconscious, amidst the dead, barely clinging to life himself.

They say the grief, the trauma, the shock left him dumb for those days after the battle.

_ No one knows _ .

***

Alexander doesn't think he could summon it again, even if he tried. He thinks that he used the last of it, whatever it was, on the field at Yorktown. He doesn't say so. He doesn't mention the emptiness in his gut, like he's lost something from inside him.

His hands shake, his voice is cracked and rough. Eliza has him see a doctor, who says it's the side effects of war, that all soldiers endure it in some shape or form.

Alexander thinks it's the remains, the last dregs of whatever power has followed him his whole life. There's not enough to shake the world, but there's enough to shake him.

He pushes the thought aside.

He cannot dwell on the past. If he lingers on the memories they will destroy him, he knows.

The forces that have haunted him his whole life have left, but Alexander cannot grieve over them now.

Now, he has so much work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOPS THIS IS SHIT


End file.
